


through the wind

by softestlesbian



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 17:13:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14024892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestlesbian/pseuds/softestlesbian
Summary: Han meant it, when he said that he’d happily let her go if it would make her happy. Looking at her face, the obvious love in her eyes, it was the only logical choice; he’s never been good at logic but he wants to be for her. Everything he’s done in the past several years, it seems, has been for her.The problem, however, is that—well. Now that they are what-they-are, however Leia might define it, he doesn’t know how to keep that going. He sees the way she looks at others, men and women that come into their vicinity; he always gets his arm around her, touches her in some way to (in some sense) stake his claim on her, but he knows that the claim is short-lived.





	through the wind

**Author's Note:**

> here it is! my first star wars fic! i have a lot of feelings about leia organa, so i'll probably write more fic like this, but right now i'm writing a rey/luke thing so WHO KNOWS WHAT I'M GONNA WRITE NEXT. 
> 
> hope you enjoy it!

Han meant it, when he said that he’d happily let her go if it would make her happy. Looking at her face, the obvious love in her eyes, it was the only logical choice; he’s never been good at logic but he wants to be for her. Everything he’s done in the past several years, it seems, has been for her.

The problem, however, is that—well. Now that they are what-they-are, however Leia might define it, he doesn’t know how to keep that going. He sees the way she looks at others, men and women that come into their vicinity; he always gets his arm around her, touches her in some way to (in some sense) stake his claim on her, but he knows that the claim is short-lived.

She was in love with Luke, too. So was he, for a time, or what he thought was love. It’s hard to differentiate two types of love when he’s never been taught how to practice either; he’s fairly certain, all these years in, that he loves Luke like a brother and Leia like a _more_ , but he can never be sure.

He sits up in his bed (their bed, really; it began as Leia’s room and gradually morphed into his as well, and now he takes up more of the room than she does) and looks over at her, watching her back rise and fall with each breath. She’s curled up tightly into a ball like she only does when she’s had an awful day, and every now and then he sees her twitch.

Her hair is still in her braids from earlier, from the party that went on in their honor. Han reaches out and smooths her hair back, grabbing the tie and slowly working the knots out of her hair.

Leia wakes up when he’s nearly done, squeezing herself tighter before she opens her eyes and looks back at him. “What’re you doing?” she asks, voice heavy with sleep.

He shrugs, pulling the sheets up a little more, so his dick isn’t out there. She’s picky about when she’d like to see it, and when she’s freshly woken up is always a no-go. “You looked uncomfortable,” he says.

“So you decided to wake me up?” Leia asks, rolling onto her back and looking at him, propping her head up on her arm.

The blankets aren’t quite as high on Leia as they are on him, but he does his level best to keep his eyes on her face rather than stare at her breasts. She’s exceedingly comfortable with her own body—at least the top half—but uncomfortable with his; Han would ask for details but he’s not sure that wouldn’t end in murder. (He has the perfect place to hide a body, after all, and a way to transport it.)

“I didn’t know I’d wake you up,” he says, and he’s lying. He does his best to keep his poker face on. He’s fairly confident that before he met her, he was well-known for his ability to keep a straight face.

Now, Leia just gives him a look, sitting up and finally (blessedly) leaning over and pulling a top on. “Alright, out with it. What do you want?” she asks him, tying her hair up in a knot this time.

“Are you happy?” he asks her. It’s not what he’d meant to say, but once it’s out there he can’t deny that it’s what he wants to know, so. Point to his brain.

She shrugs. “At the moment? Not so much,” she tells him, leaning back against the pillows, knees propped up. “Got woken up before I was ready, you know that makes me cranky.”

Even now, even after being woken up from a dead sleep, she’s articulate and composed; Han would hate her if he weren’t incapable of feeling anything but love for her.

( _You’re disgusting_ , Luke told him, only a few days before, when he had a similar meltdown over spicewine.

He’s going to try not to think about that.)

“You’re not cranky,” he tells her, poking her side.

She jumps at that, swatting at his hand. “Honestly. What do you want? You’ve only got about a minute before I go back to sleep,” she warns him.

“I want to know if you’re happy,” he tells her. He pauses for a second, and then clarifies: “With me.”

“Am I with you?” Leia asks, and it takes him a second to realize that’s the full sentence.

“I assumed you were,” Han says slowly. He’s beginning to feel like a bit of an idiot; generally, one doesn’t ask a question like that if they’re not sleeping with someone else. It’s brief, but he feels a momentary flash of fury at everyone else that Leia’s been making eyes at lately. “Considering how often you sleep here.”

“Well, you never said anything,” Leia points out. She’s looking at him in that infuriating way she has, like she’s about to smile but she doesn’t want to show it yet. “How do I know you’re not running around with every girl on the planet? You’ve got the looks for it,” she tells him.

Leia gives out compliments so rarely that Han is, inexplicably, touched by this one; he knows he’s being teased but he can’t find it in him to care. He grins wide at her and says, “Do I really?” pushing back his hair in an awful impression of someone much more suave than he is.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you do,” she tells him, and straightens her legs out, knee popping when he does.

Han winces sympathetically; “You should get to a medic,” he tells her, reaching out to pat her knee. He keeps his hand above the blankets, squeezing through the several layers there. It’s _cold_ here. “Have them look at it, if nothing else.”

She rolls her eyes, but he can see that there’s fondness there—fondness, or at least appreciation. “I’m fine,” she tells him, bending her knee up again. “It’s just a little soreness. A hazard of jumping from planet to planet, I imagine. All the atmospheric changes can’t be good for my old bones.”

Han has to laugh at that, leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead. “If you’ve got old bones, what have I got?” he asks her.

“Oh, you’re ancient,” Leia tells him seriously, and tips her chin up so she can give him a real kiss, albeit a short one. “Absolutely ancient, I have no idea why I put up with you.”

Han lies down next to her so they’re eye to eye, noses nearly touching. She’s blurry, like this, but when she reaches out and tugs him closer, murmurs _come on_ , he can’t resist. He doesn’t want to, even. “You know, sometimes I don’t know either,” he tells her quietly.

Again, it’s not something that he meant to say; he prefers to be more careful with his words like that, get at least a drink or two in him before he goes around confessing all of his insecurities. Leia’s good at that, though, at staying quiet and calm when he just needs to talk.

(When he needs to talk _to her_ , he amends, and—it’s weird, that, the idea that he needs to talk to her more than anyone else. He’s not sure when that happened; it seems like it’s always been that way, since the day they met.)

“Because I love you,” Leia tells him, keeping her voice hushed even though there’s no need. Back on the ship there was always more than a chance that they’d be overheard and they dealt with that by staying as quiet as possible, whispering words of encouragement and appreciation against one another’s skin rather than admitting them out loud.

This is different, though; different to then, and different to now. Han doesn’t know what to do with any of this; every time she says it it’s like another part of him breaks, though of course that’s ridiculous. Leia wouldn’t break him.

“I know that much,” he tells her, getting his arm around her waist gently, strategically placed between her bottom and her breasts. There’s a safe zone when it comes to touching her, but—even after their relatively few encounters—Han thinks he’s mastered it.

“And,” Leia says, looking over his face even though it’s dark and she likely can’t see much of it at all, “I keep ending up in your bed. There’s got to be something keeping me here, hmm?”

“Your bed, if we’re being technical,” Han says, rather than make another embarrassing admission. He’s had quite enough of that for one night, he thinks; he’d say for the week, but he knows he’s only too likely to say something similar tomorrow, or, barring that, the day after.

He’s never been good at holding back. Judging by Leia’s face every time she hears something new that he’s said, he doesn’t think this is a problem for either of them.

“If it were my bed I’d have the sheets match the rest of the décor,” Leia says, not looking away from his face. “Come on. You’ve moved in and taken it over, there’s no shame in that. I’ve got another room anyway, a few doors down. S’where I keep all the things that won’t fit here.”

Han laughs at that, unexpectedly louder than he meant.

Leia flinches but gently, absurdly gently, nudges her knee against his so he knows—Han thinks—that she doesn’t mean it.

“I didn’t know you were the type to care about _décor_ ,” he tells her, doing his best attempt at a posh accent and failing.

“Well,” Leia says, and there’s a laugh at the edge of her voice, “I am a princess. I think it’s part of the rule book that you’ve got to care about such things.’

Han laughs again, quieter this time, dropping his head forward to muffle his giggles against the pillow she’s lying on. She wraps her arms around him, rubbing over his back in soothing circles while he gets hold of himself.

“I am happy,” she says after a long moment, when they’ve been lying there quietly for some time. “And I’m not—no one else makes me as happy as you do.”

The words almost get caught in his throat but he has to ask, “How many others have there been, then? Since we started…” He trails off, still not sure how to talk about this without coming off as the absurd romantic he (not at all secretly) is.

“That isn’t what I meant,” Leia tells him. He can _hear_ the frown in her voice. “No, I haven’t been in anyone else’s bed, if that’s what you’re asking about.” Her voice goes a little more amused, less worried. “Is _that_ what you’re worried about?”

Han stays quiet.

Leia smacks his side, not at all hard enough to hurt. “You could’ve just asked me if I was sleeping with anyone else,” she tells him, “rather than waking me up in the middle of the night to ask if I’m _happy with you_.”

“Got my answer either way, didn’t I?” Han asks, finally lifting up enough to look at her. His stupid face is split into a wide grin, and he’d make fun of himself if Leia didn’t look equally pleased, that little smile still on her face.

“Yeah, you did, but now I’m going to wake you up with me tomorrow morning,” she tells him. “Gonna make you help me cook breakfast and everything.”

“Hope you like it burnt,” Han tells her without missing a beat.

It almost surprises him when Leia goes in for a kiss this time, one hand moving to rest on his chest, right over his heart. She kisses him softly, like she usually does when it’s just the two of them and there isn’t a war to be fought; she kisses him like she wants to make each one last.

Han certainly isn’t going to complain about that. He kisses her back but lets her set the pace, keeping his hand very still but settling a little closer so neither of them have to strain their necks very far.

When she pulls back it isn’t far; she just presses kisses along his jaw, whispering, “Still love you,” after a few.

“Still love _you_ ,” Han answers without thinking. It’s probably too earnest, definitely too sincere, but he can’t help it. That seems to be the theme of the night. To lighten the mood somewhat, he asks, “Do you really not like the color of the sheets?”

“They’re boring,” Leia says, only pulling away long enough to look them over, distaste evident in her features. “They’re _black_.”

“I thought black sheets were sexy,” Han says, clearing his throat after. She’s very beautiful, is all, even when most of what he can see is her hair.

“They’re dark, though,” she tells him, rubbing her hand over them. “Can’t even tell the last time they were washed—and please, _please_ don’t tell me the last time they were washed, I’m not sure I could handle that.”

Han laughs a little, blinking sleepily at her. “How about this,” he offers. “You move in here officially—or let me move in, whichever, but I think you should get rid of the second room—and you can redecorate however you like.”

Leia grins at him, one of her impossibly bright smiles. It hardly takes her a second before she says, “Alright, then. I’m in.”

He grins right back and kisses her again, thumbs on either side of her cheeks now, taking a steadying breath when he pulls back. “Good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the each of the corners of Leia’s mouth.

It’s more than good, really, it’s wonderful, but Han thinks she gets the message all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr at softstlesbian and twitter at haloutines, come say hi :)


End file.
